


Three Minutes

by Kaz_Langston



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-18 02:34:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21503800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaz_Langston/pseuds/Kaz_Langston
Summary: Ellie Miller makes a cup of tea.
Relationships: Alec Hardy & Ellie Miller
Comments: 6
Kudos: 55





	Three Minutes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MrsNoggin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsNoggin/gifts).



> 400 words for the impatient, irrepressible, incomparable MrsNoggin. Your comments and support are invaluable and your art is incredible.

Kettle. Water.

Bloody Alec Hardy.

Focus.

Mug. Teabag. Teaspoon.

Kettle's boiling. Pour it, hands shaking with rage, don't spill.

Three minutes to wait for it to brew, less if she prods it with the teaspoon, which she does. Aggressively. Imaging it's Alec Hardy's stupid beardy face.

DS Evans comes into the kitchen, sees her expression, and wisely turns around and leaves as though he's forgotten something important on his desk. It's almost enough to bring a smile to her face, but she's not quite ready to let go of her mood just yet, so she keeps scowling at the liquid as it darkens in spurts with each stab.

The teabag's almost unrecognisable, squashed out of shape and threatening to leak the leaves from one threadbare corner, so she fishes it out and flings it in the bin. Drops spatter on the rim and for once she decides, defiantly, to leave them.

She takes two heaped spoonfuls of sugar, more than usual but at this time of day there's only the shit biscuits left and she deserves a treat. It's certainly not because she needs any more sweetening, there's a Scottish wanker far more in need of that.

The spilled sugar is one step too far for her guilt, despite her rage, so she scoops it haphazardly off the side into a paper towel, and begrudgingly swipes at the bin's tannic stain.

There's a bottle of milk left on the side - god, why does no one in this office ever put anything away?! - but when she picks it up it's still cold, so she sloshes in a generous portion before slinging it back in the fridge.

The shared biscuit tin offers up two plain digestives. Disappointing but it'll do in a pinch, and she's not dragging herself out to the shops now.

She leaves the kitchen and stalks back to her desk, the door swinging shut into silence. No one makes eye contact, everyone furiously looking busy.

Hardy pokes his head out of his office and blinks at her, almost timidly. "Miller," he offers tentatively.

"I'm not talking to you," she snarls, low and deadly.

He looks at her, both of them contemplating relative ranks for a long moment, and eventually decides that discretion is the better part of valour, disappearing back inside with a sharp half nod.

She sits at her desk, takes a sip.

The bloody milk's gone off.


End file.
